


Rotation

by upriserseven



Series: C-53 (or, maybe, Home) [4]
Category: Captain Marvel (2019)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-18 18:16:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18255275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upriserseven/pseuds/upriserseven
Summary: Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, these are definitely the worst. You know, of course you know, why she can’t be here and you don’t blame her for her absences, but they hurt all the same.She’s never managed to make it back for one of those, not in the four years since her visits started and it’s okay, it really is. (It’s not.)





	Rotation

**Author's Note:**

> It was a running joke in an old fandom of mine that I was the master of angst, and some of that started to creep in here, but I'd like to confirm right here and now that I will never write anything but a glorious happy ending for this lil family. 
> 
> Anyway! Hi hello hello. It's only been over a week since I last published something but I missed it. This is now part four of a six-part series, so only two more C-53 visits left. But I have also half-written approximately forty-three million other Captain Marvel fics so I should have enough to keep going forever probably.

There are three hundred and sixty-five days in most years. Sometimes, there’s three hundred and sixty-six. There’s three hundred and sixty-five days in a year and you miss Carol on every single one. Sometimes you even miss her on the days she’s actually here, even if those sting a little less. You miss her on all of these days but some are harder than others. Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, these are definitely the worst. You know, of course you know, why she can’t be here and you don’t blame her for her absences, but they hurt all the same.

She’s never managed to make it back for one of those, not in the four years since her visits started and it’s okay, it really is. (It’s not.) So when you hear the knock on the door, you’re definitely not expecting it to be her. It should be a complete shock, that she’s leaning against your doorframe, jacket draped over her stupid space suit and a perfectly _Carol_ grin on her face, but somehow it isn’t. When she pulls you to her and kisses you, when she whispers “hi” in your ear, you feel like some part of you knew she’d make it here for an important day eventually, you just didn’t know you were holding your breath for it.

“How did you manage to land without me even seeing you? Or, y’know, hearing you?” It’s not the most important question but it’s the one you get stuck on and you wonder why your brain always does this around her.

“Told you that I could nail a landing.”

“You said that almost four years ago, baby. Either it’s taken you a long time, or you landed out of sight because you still end up on your back every time.”

You’re expecting that faux-offended face she loves to throw at you whenever she can, but instead she pulls you back into her and whispers a half-joke about how yeah, you’re right, she does always end up on her back when she comes to visit you and when she kisses your cheek, you’re reminded why you love her so damn much.

She’s moved away from you before you even realise, and only when you hear Monica groaning from the other room does your brain catch up and follow her in.

“ _Mama_. You know I’m always happy to see you but I think you can put me down.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because.”

“Nope.”

If it’s tough raising a teenager (which, God, it is), you can’t imagine what it’s like for Carol. They’ve always loved each other, fiercely and well, and really, you’re lucky that Monica is such a great kid, and that hasn’t changed in the way you were warned it might. But, Carol? Carol flies down to Earth maybe twice a year, and you can see that she’s worried about the day she’s going to come down and Monica won’t light up at the sight of her anymore. You’ve tried, you’ve really tried, to tell Carol you don’t think that’s going to happen. But you see the relief wash over her every time Monica accepts a hug or a kiss, or when she hears the word _Mama_ escape your daughter’s lips.

Maybe it’s harder, maybe every time she’s here and you have your family back, you miss her even more when she leaves, but nothing could make you give up these moments. This one is going to hurt when she goes, and you know she knows it too. Next year, when she can’t be here on the day, you’re going to remember that she _was_ here this year. You can’t really know until then whether that will hurt or heal, but that’s a problem for next year.

“I was worried you wouldn’t make it back!”

“I’m sorry, was this planned?” The grins they flash at you are ridiculous, and somehow identical, and your heart flutters at the idea that Carol’s been planning this since at least the last time you saw her. But she just smiles at you and kisses you as she walks past you, heading to your bedroom to change into some normal clothes.

Monica’s still smiling at you when you snap out of it, and she nods her head up the stairs.

“Nothing gross, because I’m still here and also because dinner’s almost ready.” She rolls her eyes at you and ugh, you hate how _adult_ she looks now. “Go say thanks. She’s been excited about this.”

It takes very little detective work to make your overexcited (girlfriend? partner? _wife_? Carol. Your Carol. It’ll do.) It takes very little to make her spill, because she really has been excited, it seems, and she bashfully informs you she’d started planning this last year, the last time she’d had to miss it. But she’s been planning and checking off dates on a homemade C-53 calendar and apparently she’d “almost royally fucked the whole thing up”, but she’s here and she’s glowing. Not literally, and it’s ridiculous that you even have to think that, but her eyes and her smile shine brighter than her superpowers ever could and it takes her so, so long to change into her jeans because you can’t stop kissing her. It’s not even sexual, not really, although you’ve missed her and it’s always nice seeing her half-naked in front of you, but you just don’t know that there’s any possible way to express to her how happy you are, so you kiss her over and over, wherever you can reach, until she eventually starts to pull you back to the kitchen, with promises of later.

It feels like honest to God magic, having her here tonight. Not alien magic, not whatever weird version of normal you’ve come to accept over the last four years, and not even the magic of having her here when you never thought she’d celebrate this day with you again. Just pure magic, the same kind you’ve felt around her since the day the two of you met, and your heart feels so full and happy that you really just want to capture the moment forever. You’re thankful for Monica, who’s taken to intensely documenting Carol’s visits, and you’re thankful for your parents, who bought her a new camera for her last birthday, because Carol walks you into the kitchen, grinning at you like the same idiot you fell in love with years ago, and Monica already has a lens pointed at you.

It’s a habit she’d developed a year or so ago, when the three of you had decided to have a backyard picnic, and you’d almost cried when the pictures finally got developed. She’d used a whole roll of film in one weekend, and yes, there were a few that came out blurry or just simply didn’t work, but the majority of them showed blinding smiles, and laughter you could almost hear. You’d panicked, just a little, at the thought of the staff at the photo place seeing the one of you and Carol kissing, but nobody said anything and you took it as a small victory that they’re a little more open-minded than you’d expected. Maybe just apathetic, but it worked in your favour either way. Monica had been practically bouncing off the walls to show Carol the next time she’d visited, and Carol? Well, Carol _did_ cry. A lot, actually, and she when she left a few days later, you knew there were more than a couple of pictures tucked away in her jacket pocket.

“Smile, guys!”

You do, but you would’ve even if Monica hadn’t ordered it. It had been cute, last week, when Monica told you she was cooking tonight. It had been even nicer when she accidentally let slip that she was also baking something but this? This is beyond your wildest dreams and you know this whole situation is far from perfect but for just a second, you can’t believe how damn lucky you are.

She’d begged your mother for recipes, apparently, and had to promise she was cutting quantities in half because “after all, there’s only the two of you”, and she’s so nervous when she’s telling you the excuses she had to make about why they shouldn’t come and visit you for the weekend. You hate that your baby girl is old enough to make you dinner, and think quickly, and be so grown up, but you’re so proud of the person she’s becoming that you don’t let yourself dwell on it. Besides, she looks so worried about the whole thing that it makes you remember that she’s really still only a kid, and you’re thankful for that when she accepts your hug and the kiss you can barely manage to place on the top of her head, now that she’s as tall as you.

“Anybody ever tell you you’re the best kid in the world?”

“I won’t mind if you want to start telling me more often.”

It’s her who invites Carol into the hug, and you’re upset for half a second when she hesitates, until you realise she’s picked up Monica’s camera to point at the two of you, and you’re pretty sure this is already the best celebration ever, even if the actual day isn’t until tomorrow.

It’s even better than old times, really, because you sit around the table and you eat and you laugh and you feel the meaning of family so deep inside you that you’re suddenly struck by all the times you didn’t think you’d ever have this. Before Carol, with Carol, _after_ Carol, and you wonder how it is that family, for you, is a superhero who comes home twice a year but keeps the house warm enough to last between visits. You miss her, and you know Monica misses her too, but her presence is so constant and comforting that 6 months seems like a small price to pay for the perfect long weekends you get together. You wonder if she has any idea. You don’t really talk about the in-between times, other than to catch each other up on the big news, and maybe you should, but it all seems so unimportant once she’s actually there with you.

“Hey.” Her hand covers yours and when you look up, her eyes are locked on you in a way that makes you melt. “Where’s your head at?”

“Isn’t that my line?”

“Oh, well I do apologise! Allow me to rephrase. Penny for your thoughts, maybe?” That smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Sorry, I kind of zoned out. I know. I’m back.”

You know she wants to push more, but you’re glad that she doesn’t. You were thinking about everything and nothing all at once, and it seems like too much to try and explain right now.

“Well, may I propose a toast?” She’s so _Carol_ about the whole thing, raising her beer and sporting the most ridiculous faux-serious expression and you turn to find Monica, same look on her face, raising a glass of juice. You’ll never be over just how much of her there is in that kid, and you haven’t got a fucking clue how it happened, really, considering the circumstances, but if you didn’t know any better, you’d believe she really was Carol’s.

“You may.”

“To Maria Rambeau, one of my two favourite humans on this planet. Or, actually, on any planet. I know I can’t quite shake the terminology, so we might as well embrace it. Here’s to another complete rotation.” You roll your eyes at her, and laughter from both of them floats through you. “I’m sorry it took me this long to celebrate with you. I love you.”

“To Mom.”

“Well, thank you both. There’s nobody I’d rather celebrate a rotation with.” And you let the rest of the dinner fly by as it is, beautiful and safe and exactly how you’d like all of your birthdays to be, even when you know that’s not possible. It takes every ounce of your strength not to mention it until Monica goes to bed, so you’re practically jumping out of your skin by the time she comes to sit next to you on the couch, putting another drink in your hand.

“You said ‘I love you’” maybe, maybe, there’s a better way to say it but it seems to want to burst out of you like that, and there’s not a lot you can do about it.

“What?”

“Your birthday toast, you said ‘I love you’ in your birthday toast.”

“I did.”

“That’s only the second time you’ve said that in four years.” Even then, the last time, she hadn’t really said it to you so much as she’d been stating a fact, and you know she says it to Monica all the time, but not to you. She’s pulled away before you can keep thinking and she’s looking at you and _God_ _her eyes are beautiful_ and maybe you shouldn’t have said anything.

“I know.” Logically, it takes more than a second for her to place both of your drinks on the table and lean back into the couch, but it doesn’t feel like it. She reaches around to pull you into her, moving her fingers to the top of your head, and kissing your temple, and you think she’s going to move on from the topic completely. If you’re honest, you’re about to let her. “I’m sorry, I should be saying it. I didn’t mean to avoid it.”

“So why did you?” You feel her freeze and shit, you didn’t mean it like that, so you tilt your head up to face her and kiss her cheek. “I’m not mad. I know that came out like I was. I’m just curious, I guess. I know that you do, I’m just wondering why we don’t say it.”

And you do know. You really do, because maybe Carol doesn’t say ‘I love you’ in those exact words, but she says it in every other way imaginable. She makes a separate batch of banana pancakes on weekend mornings, because you don’t care for blueberry or chocolate chip, and she kisses you oh-so-softly, pouring her heart and soul into every touch. She breathes your name out and she holds you in a lock you could get out of, but you never want to. She loves you, and she loves your daughter, and you know this, but tonight she said it and it shook you in a way you don’t understand.

“At first, at first I knew it. I knew it in my memories and in my brain and I sort of knew it in my heart, but I wanted to really feel it again? Feel it in a way that wasn’t just muscle memory, you know? But then when I did, I didn’t know how to. I didn’t want to say it before I left, because I thought it would seem like I wasn’t coming back. And I didn’t know if it should be something I said casually or if I should make it like, a thing? I overthought it. And then suddenly it was four years later and I still hadn’t said it.”

“Do you remember the first time you ever said it? I mean, no, you said you loved me the first day we met but do you remember the first time you said you _loved_ loved me?”

“Loved loved? Why do I feel eleven?”

“Shut up. Do you remember?”

“I remember it took me maybe about an hour. I remember the feeling that you absolutely knew what I was going to say, but being so scared you wouldn’t say it back. I remember what happened after I said it.” You can’t help but blush at that, because yeah, okay, maybe you’d jumped her when the words finally came out but how could you not? Your beautiful, brilliant dream of a girlfriend had spent the afternoon nervously trying to tell you she loved you, so you could be forgiven for wanting to show her just how mutual the feeling was.

“You were so nervous. I could practically feel the nerves radiating out of you. And then once I said it back, you must’ve repeated it a thousand times a minute. I’d love to be surprised that you’ve been overthinking this for four years, but damn if it isn’t classic Carol Danvers behaviour.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

It’s easy, really. It’s easy to tell Carol you love her because you’ve loved her since the second you saw her. It’s easy to hear, because you’ve known she loves you since about a second later. And loving Carol Danvers is the hardest thing you’ve ever done, even before the crash, but it’s also so, so easy because it was never a choice, for either of you, and the last four years have proven that over and over.

“Wanna show me just how much?”

“Honestly, with the quality of your pick-up lines, it’s a wonder you ever got the girl.”

“Must just be my good looks?” You raise an eyebrow at her. “My impossible charm? My quick wit? No? Have you maybe just been super drunk the whole time we’ve known each other? Did you feel bad for me?” You try kissing her, but you know better than to think that’ll shut her up, and even as you’re dragging her to the bedroom, she’s throwing more and more ridiculous suggestions at you. Only when you have her backed against the bedroom door does she finally stop. “Admit it was the lines. Come on, you love it.”

“No, I love _you_. All you ever had to do was smile at me, and I was yours.”

She does.

“You mean like this?”

“Exactly like that.”

Part of you used to think Carol was a weakness for you. Her smile, the sound of her laugh, all of it, it was always the thing to bring you back to humanity, always the thing to take up too much space in your brain, long before Monica. It switched from just Carol to family, to both of them, and only when it was lost did you realise that Carol was never your weakness, she’s your strength. That humanity, that love, will always be your strength. It’s hers, too, and you know it’s Monica’s.

Right now, though. Right now you’re weak in a way that only she has ever managed, and the way her hair tickles your face and her skin is so soft under your hands reminds you of humanity in a very different way. God, you miss her when she’s gone. You love having her back in your bed, and your reunions are always amazing, but you wish that getting to be with her like this didn’t have to feel like an event.

Tonight, it’s a celebration. She claims that it’s a celebration of you. It’s of both of you, really, and it’s of everything you don’t usually celebrate. Just like before, like all those years ago, the dam is broken now, and she tells you she loves you again and again, in between kisses, mumbled into your skin, drawn out in quiet moans. You _celebrate_ until you’re exhausted and sated and frankly euphoric, and your skin is on fire but the idea of it not touching her for even a second kills you, and you pull her so close to you that it should be uncomfortable and let yourself drift to sleep pressed against her back.

She’s whispering because thinks that you’ve fallen asleep. You don’t correct her.

“Happy birthday. I love you. I’m sorry.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for all the beautiful kind comments you guys leave, they mean the world.


End file.
